Leashed
by Kyouningyou
Summary: Jonathan's first escape attempt was not successful. The Count reinforces his earlier proclaimation of ownership. Rated for nudity and hints of slash. Oneshot.


_Jonathan's first escape attempt was not successful…_

His body felt weighed down, cold, and heavy, as though he had been plunged into a pool of ice water. His pulse sent dull, aching throbs through his head and hot waves of sharp pain across his palms and he vaguely remembered the feeling of his skin scraping across stone. Memories, grey and muted, swam through his head, mingling with poisoned dreams. Through the throbbing in his head Jonathan Harker struggled to disregard the strange and frightening thoughts and identify his surroundings. His eyes fluttered open with surprising ease, considering the numbness that had overtaken the rest of his body, yet still he saw nothing. _Blindfolded_, he realized as his lashes brushed the velvety cloth covering his eyes. He attempted to move his limbs only to find that the weight holding him down was not merely lethargy; he was lying on his side with chains clamped onto his wrists and ankles, his hands held above his head so that no part of his body was protected. And on that note, he realized with no small amount of horror that save for the cloth and the chains he was completely unclothed. Even his hair ribbon was missing, long silver-grey locks spilling over his back and shoulders. His bare form rested atop a smooth, cold stone surface that seemed to be leeching what little heat remained in his body. The stone seemed to smooth to simply be the floor of a dungeon, so Jonathan surmised that he must have been lying atop a stone table or – the thought made him shudder – an altar. Even with this information he had no real knowledge as to his whereabouts or situation. He was someone's prisoner – that much was painfully obvious – but to whom and why? His memories seemed surreal and unreliable.

This room or chamber or dungeon was very nearly silent. There was a pungent odor, warm, and metallic, like ashes from a hearth, but little sound. He heard neither the drip of water nor the scuttling of vermin nor the rattling of chains. The only sounds he was aware of were his own breaths and the soft crackle of embers, likely in some far-off corner of the room as he felt no heat; a torch, maybe. He was alone, for the time being. Whether this was a good or bad thing he could not decide. If the Count were to come…

The Count?

As water flowed from a burst dam the memories flowed back. The Count and his castle, the ghostly wisps and howling wolves, the twisting shadows and earth packed boxes, the demon women and bloodied fangs… Yes all these memories and more came back. He remembered scaling the window, attempting to escape in the daylight. The ship bearing Dracula to England was due to leave that night, and with his departure, Jonathan's life was to be forfeit. He remembered his hands grasping weakly at the worn stone, rough, aged rock cutting into soft, fragile skin. He remembered losing his meager grip, falling, and the sharp _crack_ he'd heard as his skull struck the stone below. He remembered blood, hot and fragrant, pooling beneath his crown and body. His last thoughts before sinking into darkness had been '_At least I will not die an animal in a cage…_'

Jonathan almost scoffed at his own foolishness and ill luck. He had been nearly halfway down from his trek; of course the fall would not kill him. He could not have been unconscious for very long, or he should have bleed to death. The Count could not come out in the daylight, or so it seemed, and so it must be that the demon women could not either. Someone must have found him, but not one of those four. One of the gypsies who had borne the Count off, possibly, or some other servant Jonathan was not yet aware of. And now he was to be left alone, naked and helpless for the wicked furies to feast on. Better he had died on impact with the ground, Jonathan believed, rather than be placed within their power once more.

"Jonathan…"

That voice was eerie and familiar, sending chills up Jonathan's spine. It was all too familiar – addressing him with his given name – and the fact that it had come from behind him made him feel more helpless than ever. Weakly he tried to respond, though he only managed a subdued choking sound. Clearing his throat, he managed a raspy "C-Count?"

There was a low chuckle and Jonathan heard sharp footsteps across the stone floor, moving ever more closely to the spot where he lay prone. The fact that he had not heard the same footsteps enter the room frightened him. How long had the Count been standing there, staring at him? What of the ship that was meant to take him from this country?

"Do you remember, I wonder," those footsteps came to a stop right behind Jonathan "the warning I gave my daughters on that night?" Jonathan winced as an icy cold hand came to rest at the base of his spine. His face burned at the humiliation as the Count's nails traced up and down his spine gently, tenderly even. "I told them that you belonged to me, did I not?"

Jonathan did not know truly whether the Count desired an answer from him or not. He lay silently, for only a brief moment, before rasping out a weak, "Y-yes."

The fingers, now resting at the very top of his spine, at the base of his neck, tangled in silver strands suddenly twisted harshly in Jonathan's hair, jerking the frightened boy's head back and earning a pained gasp. "And yet," the Count's voice came out as a growl, "you do not seem to fully understand the meaning of those words. It is unfortunate but…" The hand in his hair pulled the loose strands from the back of his neck, leaving the spot exposed, "it seems I will have to take drastic measures to enforce my words."

The hand was gone and Jonathan heard the footsteps again, moving farther away towards the edge of the room. It was too much to hope that he might be leaving, however. There was the clanking of metal, and then a hiss and the smell of smoke and ash hit Jonathan more strongly than ever. The Count's footsteps approached again and Jonathan let out a gasp as he felt icy lips next to his ear whispering, "With this, you will never be allowed forget that you are _ţigani domneşti_, the lord's slave." The hand was in his hair again, holding the silver strands out of the way so that the back of his neck was once again bare. There was a brief moment of hesitation. And then, the pain.

Jonathan screamed as heated metal was pressed firmly against the back of his neck, just below the line of hair. He could hear the hiss as his own flesh melted and twisted in the shape of the brand. He heard something that might have been a chuckle from his captor and was aware of the presence of tears but he was beyond caring. Everything, the pain, the humiliation of the moment, his own weakness was just too much for him. Just when he thought he was going to black out the brand was gone. Had there been anything in his stomach he might have thrown up, but as it was, his breath simply came out in heavy pants, and his body heaved. He wished he could curl in on himself, cover himself somehow, but the chains on his ankles prevented event that much. The icy fingers were there again, gently tracing the newly made mark on his skin. It was almost soothing against the burn, but Jonathan wished the Count would remove his hand all the same. There was that low chuckle again.

"Perfect…" Dracula whispered. Suddenly his hands were at the back of Jonathan's head, and the blindfold fell away. Ahead of him, Jonathan saw nothing, save the bare wall and floor. There were no chains, not remains, no other prisoners. Not a dungeon then. Or if it was, it had not housed anyone save for Jonathan in quite some time. Jonathan nearly flinched when the Count's hand cut into his field of vision. Gently he took Jonathan's chin and guided him to look upwards, leaning forward as he did so. The brand fell to the ground with a noisy clatter, no longer necessary. Their eyes locked lazy red on tear-filled green. Jonathan couldn't comprehend the look in his captor's eyes, nor did he want to.

Suddenly the Count pulled away, straightening his stance. Jonathan wanted to turn away, but their eyes were still locked, and he found he was unable to break the gaze. He watched as the Count brought his hand to his collar, and slipped two fingers beneath the fabric. They reemerged with a silver chain, drawing out a medallion that Jonathan was sure he had never seen the Count wearing. The Count leaned over again, holding the medallion over his captive's eyes. "This is the mark of the House of Dragon," he explained. The medallion bore the image of a silver dragon, with its tail winding around its own throat. Emerging from between its wings was what looked like a cross, which begged Jonathan to wonder as to _why_ the Count wore it. "I have placed this mark on all of my most precious possessions, Jonathan."

"Possessions?" Jonathan whispered back. The Count smirked.

"As long as this mark is on your skin, you are mine," he whispered. Suddenly Jonathan felt very drained. Blackness welled at the edge of his vision. "And anyone who touches you without my leave will pay dearly." The last thing Jonathan remembered was the feeling of foreboding that washed over him, and the Count's cruel smile.


End file.
